The Weight of The Score

Holy Moly,

How the richness of the eyes did throw me,

Upon the piste of the mantle,

Where I lost control,

Burned of a candle,

Love of realization, aimed merely to ensure,

That I live the life I deserve to endure.

Stowe me holy,

How coarse conditions of the mind and memory,

Give over to me sensory pain of inspiration,

Enriched by my love of loves fine integration,

Upon the slats of deaths non-salvation.

Then as I turn upon the dime,

I tilt and become defined,

Of my langue,

Holding my strength like tree roots,

Tied into you.

And so, I ask myself dearly.

Should I be, or should I be wrong,

It will not matter just as long,

As you are there waiting for me,

In reality or my dreams,

Waiting to tie my seams,

Along my personalities reach,

Where I aim to breach,

Happiness of Life,

And detachment of non-scope,

Over idle and idiosyncrasy,

And canonical hypocrisy,

I will despot the worst,

And store it in case,

Should one day I need to remind myself,

Harshly of the life,

The mask I used to place,

So gently upon my face.